


Building Circuits

by cereal_whore



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Character Analysis, Character Study, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, but like, i hate this, i really fw clint here oops, i sound like i think drinking black coffee is a personality trait, this is kinda a mess and sounds way too edgy, uH natasha and tony have a REALLY weird ass friendship here, uH yo idk what the FUCK i'm doing here, yeah a mess, yeah sorry this entire fic is a mesS but i sorta rlly like how i implied their relationshisp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-02 02:49:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17879666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal_whore/pseuds/cereal_whore
Summary: Tony Stark doesn't bleed red, and sometimes he wonders if he could even bleed.-“But apathy is never just apathy,” he attempts to reconcile though Natasha shows no need for it.And then, something shifts.Her gaze if possible, colder, more intense and something other than cloudy blankness that’s purposeful and glaciar.She’s searching for something.He sits up, finding himself desperately wishing for her to find something- anything other than whatever he puts up. That at least even the most observant, most intuitive person he knows could find a shred of humanity or something worth salvageable within him and maybe-Her eyes dim, and she looks away: either she found nothing, or she gave up.He slouches, and takes another sip from his warm beer.





	Building Circuits

**Author's Note:**

> damn idk what's up but read the tags pls bc i'm embarrassed from this fic and i need ppl to know that i know that i'm embarrassed
> 
> also this fic jumps from place to place so idk what's up anymore yEe

Sometimes Tony Stark wonders if he’d even bleed red.

Which is an utterly stupid thought, considering how he’s definitely witnessed his own blood before in numerous events, and that since he’s human, his blood cells that circulate oxygen must be red.

Just like everyone else.

Meaning that by extension, everyone else must bleed red.

Doesn’t feel like it.

And bleeding red definitely doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t excuse his inhumane behavior or that he’s not a decent human being just like every other average person.

He figures that if his arc internally combusts, fries, and sends shrapnels of fragmented glass and metal plunging deep into his flesh- God and Satan (so Loki, he supposes) could see the thick globs of ink swallow the surface of his skin, drip over his waterline, and splatter across the back of his teeth through a cough.

Or maybe if a cut slices through his skin alcohol would seep out. Which would be pretty cool, in his opinion.

 

But ultimately, Tony decides that he doesn’t bleed. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t simply unravel or leak and listlessly watch his thoughts and his emotions gradually drain out into the open for everyone to see.

Instead he breaks, shatters, and crumples all at once in a single destructive moment, before he grabs his wrench and bang himself back together into something that can never be as pure, as functionable as the original, but at has absolutely no patches that one would make when facing a leak or a puncture.

Rinse and repeat.

And his blood would be greasy and disgustingly thick as tar, trickling behind him in a flammable form of gasoline, watching as oil drip through his organs and gears to keep him functioning. So nevermind, he does bleed- unlike Natasha, who definitely doesn’t; but he’s not human enough to utilise blood.

* * *

Natasha doesn’t bleed.

If he’s a robot who desperately tries to engineer itself a new body the same way he’s entirely dependent on a robotic suit to be _someone (when will you become something?)_ , whose themes highlight red just like blood to hide whatever’s pumping oil inside- then Natasha has nothing.

He used to wonder why she was so cold, and her body didn’t function like a human being, with her expressions blank and invasive. Why she simply relied on herself and her abilities, even with the indisputable knowledge that though her skills may be perfect, they don’t alter the fact that she’s still mortal, no matter how minor the quality that makes her such is.

So how come she keeps her expression neutralized, her blood’s faucet jammed shut?

Then he realizes it’s because she’s empty.

She’s already bled out everything. Whatever emotions once shook her skeletal frame and whatever words she had spat out alongside a bitter sneer passed: anything she felt and everything she thought had already vomited out, with any residue drained from the lacerations inflicted upon her. She has nothing left. If her scars ever reopened- nothing would come out.

Or maybe there is something still within her. Maybe any sense of genuinity within her smirks, any softness that does reside upon her expression happens to have an honest source- but he doubts it. Being truthful or empathetic meant vulnerability, and Natasha didn’t have any tears left to cry. She fakes everything she doesn’t have, she constructs her emotions to replicate a human’s, but in the end they’re still artificial.

So maybe she really is just empty. But if there really is something beneath her insouciant countenance and hollow chest cavity- then it’s best not to find out.

Tony knows better than anyone that apathy is a mask- something used to paint over things that should never be seen. However, he relies on humor, on sardonic comments and alcohol rather than indifference.

Because apathy is always a last resort- and Natasha who has nothing left, nothing else to use or to depend even within herself, is too addicted on the familiarity of apathy to even think of crawling out of its hole.

He watches her and wonders if she even notices the position she’s trapped in: the unrepentable state she forced herself into. How all her desires, sense of humanity directed towards herself and her sense of selfishness for human happiness and love to simply discharge through her cuts and soaked into the crumbly soil below that serves as a layer between her and the underworld.

How bad does it have to get, to lose everything except for materials to harden into cold determination to get a job done?

* * *

Bruce bleeds.

And he doesn’t stop.

If Hulk and Bruce do have anything in common in terms of emotions, it’s that they’re uncontrollable and intense, even if the two have differing opinions on whether the world should know about them.

Tony watches as Bruce leaves massive stains of blood with every step. All his floors, his entire tower is illustrated in vivid red, a color that he finds enchantingly beautiful yet keeps him up at night, as he sits in bed, wondering if Bruce’s own sheets are permanently scarlet.

He wants Bruce to stop.

It’s going to drive him crazy one day.

But Bruce is special. Unlike Tony, unlike any other members of his this team, his blood is fresh and continuous and appears to never run out- that in spite of how much pain and how much hurt is inflicted onto Bruce, his blood vault doesn’t close and wield shut like Tony nor does it dry like Natasha. Even with each puddle of blood left dribbling behind wounded body whose exposed lacerations are stinging from oxygen and out for the whole world to see and to take advantage of- Bruce still refuses to close them up.

Though people could approach and dig their knuckles deep into the cuts of his back and watch more blood trickle down, Bruce lets them. He doesn’t lie about his feelings the way Tony does, he doesn’t lie to himself the way Steve does, and he doesn’t dispose of them like Natasha (who Tony doubts even needs to trash her feelings because he figures that she doesn’t even know how to produce them anymore, stuck and trapped underneath her intoxicating high of apathy that she can’t escape from out of habit and time). He just accepts his feelings, and accepts that no one will help him. And rather than saving himself from hurt and cauterizing the sources of his pain closed- he still keeps Tony around, still continues living as an Avenger, still unleashes the Hulk.

Tony stays awake at night wondering how many of the crusted crimson blood from years before, to the fresh and metallic blemishes of red coating Bruce’s back and his surroundings are because of him.

* * *

“You know, you’re apathetic too.”

Tony glances to the source of the voice, watching Natasha who’s currently postured onto the arm of the couch in the vast desert christened their living room, sitting in the dark and doing positively nothing as the movie just ended.

He doesn’t even know why she’s here. He doesn’t even have a considerable friendship with anyone other than possibly Bruce within this tower, and they don’t really talk outside of missions or necessity. They all have their own demons to deal with, their own schedule, and their own time.

But here’s Natasha, watching him calculatingly, her eyes not glittering- but instead covered in a sheen of gloss that somehow  _accentuates_ the original dullness of her eyes. As if emphasizing that if the layer of unsettling shine was stripped away, it’d reveal the unnatural truth of her eyes.

“Hm? What’s that sweetheart?”

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t scowl, and doesn’t ripple her lips back to bare teeth.

She just stares.

Typical.

“Apathy looks bad on everyone. The difference between you and me is that you just look ignorant. It’s ugly. I happen to just look uncaring, and at least that’s the end of it.”

He takes a second, watching the quiet credits rolling across the screen. When has this become a poetry slam?

He just wanted to watch his movie.

“Yeah. But at least I look like an ass. Not a monster.” He retorts, and though his condescending smile reveals nothing, he feels bad. Even though Natasha has absolutely no reaction towards his words, guilt simmers atop his acid reflex. “But apathy is never just apathy,” he attempts to reconcile though Natasha shows no need for it.

And then, something shifts.

Her gaze if possible, colder, more intense and  _something_  other than cloudy blankness that’s purposeful and glaciar.

She’s searching for something.

He sits up, finding himself desperately wishing for her to find something-  _anything_  other than whatever he puts up. That at least even the most observant, most intuitive person he knows could find a shred of humanity or something worth salvageable within him and maybe-

Her eyes dim, and she looks away: either she found nothing, or she gave up.

He slouches, and takes another sip from his warm beer.

* * *

Tony relates to Clint the most.

But Clint chooses to be a good person, chooses to not be an ass, and therefore his blood, proving its existence with each cut into his flesh that’s purposefully buttery and soft, still shines red.

However, Clint doesn’t break. He’s just desperate and stupid. Doesn’t construct his body out of iron like Tony to shield a penetrable heart, but still gives a notion as to whether he has a conscience, unlike Natasha whose body is vulnerable but her heart is not.

He wants others to see him bleed, wants others to reach past his physical defenses and reach out to him. But rather than their groping hands enveloping him in a hug as he hoped- they claw and tear through his flesh and abandon him bleeding and aching. And he sits in silence, pushing a needle into his skin and back out in a repetitive mechanical pattern that still conveys humanity because no machine would ever patch itself up when the price is pain and only serves as a temporary solution (while Tony simply throws himself away and builds a newer, but not better body), stitching up gushing cuts and putting himself back out only for the strings to snap by the same nails.

But he doesn’t learn. He still believes in the best, and he thinks that there’s still hope and that others will be there and one day-

 

And so he continues to push on for a better day (push the needle through his skin), dreaming of a better future (blotting away the blood soaking his string), and opening his Frankenstein arms back open wide again (knotting away the fragile threads strained between two patches of flesh).

* * *

Tony knows he’s meant to be a superhero. Superheroes’ risk of death is insanely high, and there’s no way they could ever live a normal human life.

Well if the qualifications are basically to be partially-suicidal, be able to save lives (their own not needed) and to be expected to be isolated from a normal human life- then by default he’s basically the epitome of a superhero.

But then there’s Steve. Captain America. Who not only meets the fundamentals of being a superhero- he actually has a will to live and the ability to interact with humans normally without having to tape on a mask (albeit Tony’s image is rather unflattering while Clint is actually genuine but much too vulnerable). But he’s still not perfect (Tony hates how everyone seems to think otherwise though).

Steve might want to live, but he can’t save himself no matter how hard he tries.

He can’t scrub away the blood clotting the wounds inflicted from World War II, and he can’t stop his heart from oozing blood that’s desperate to revive anything from his past life.

He can try.

Tony’s seen him try.

But all he does is glue his heart to the past, leaving ripping it off past memories as he’s forced to remember he’s in the present, bleeding and stinging.

Sometimes Tony wonders if the blood he bleeds is even his.

Sure, Bruce is amazingly capable of just generating a consistent amount of blood and humaneness and Natasha just _can’t_ because she can’t get her head out of the high clouds of unfeeling to even bother and _wake up_ -

But the stench of death and decay clings onto Captain America, wafting through gnashed minty teeth plastered into a pearly-white smile and soaked into his nationalized uniform that’s meant to symbolize patriotism and hope.

Ghosts of Steve’s past lunges and latches onto his life and gnaws through his exterior of Captain America, down to the bones of Steve. Blood that he spilled intermingled with his own- as if he’s trying to repay the price of lives his costed through cutting himself open and letting himself bleed. Letting himself appear vulnerable, for others who were killed who may not even deserve such an act of kindness and compensation.

Foolish.

Dumb.

Desperate to make others feel better through hurting himself.

Tony Stark constantly wonders why he’s even here, why he’s even Iron Man because though he can’t live without the suit, can’t live without the physical form of a metal body that hides whatever’s inside because he’s gotten the taste of being something of being something more than simply Tony Stark, billionaire and entrepreneur- he knows he’s not meant to be the type of superhero Steve is. Because he’s selfish and wants to be happy, unlike Steve who’s selfless and forces himself to disobey his own wishes to pursuit others’ happiness. _(Tony, grow up, when will you_ be _something-)_.

It appears as if Steve’s found his purpose as Captain America: the nation’s _great_ and oh-almighty savior, who bleeds every day and cripples his own emotions with others.

Tony Stark created Iron Man for selfish purposes. To live, to survive (and that applies to even now, because he doesn’t _want_ to live as Tony Stark he wants to solely be Iron Man-) and because he just can. But Iron Man serves the opposite for him than with Steve and Captain America. At least he doesn’t lie to himself in what he wants.

He watches Steve ruin his carpet with globs of blood, blood that he forces himself to spill.

Tony Stark shakes his head, and allows Steve to bleed out. Because it’ll all be fine. Because Captain America will grab Steve by the shoulders, screaming that he must carry the weight of his image as a superhero, and dust him off and slowly. Steve will wearily bandage his self-inflicted wounds, and grab the nails of the bodies around him to slice into himself again.

* * *

 Steve doesn’t understand this. He doesn’t understand that Tony just wants to be happy, but wanting to stay young and find happiness automatically equates to being selfish.

“I don’t get you!” Steve is shouting by now.

“Well, of course. I’m a billionaire you don’t _have_ to get me other than I’m just filthy rich.” Tony smiles haughtily.

“You know. You could be something. Your dad was something and you have good moments-” _Is this meant to be a backhanded compliment or-_ “You have so much _potential!_ ”

Tony decides that at the very least, as he sends another indifferent and condescending lilting smile that most surely left another cut across Steve’s open heart, at least Steve decided he could become something, unlike his father.

What Steve didn’t know was that his father was at least right. He was a smart man- not a kind one like Steve, and therefore his opinion will forever be in some sense and definitely in this situation, more accurate.

Tony inwardly sighs out of pity. Poor, naive Steve doesn’t know a lot of things when it comes to Tony Stark, and yet acts as if he does. Anger flares up within his stomach.

* * *

“I don’t have anything to miss.” She answers simply.

Tony takes another sip from his glass, unsure what made him even ask, but even more so startled that Natasha actually answered an arguably personal question.

He takes a second, and reminicises through Howard and Maria’s unstable marriage, Howard’s brutal screams of confusion and inability to control his own life that lead him to control Tony’s, and Jarvis’ death. He remembers seeing Steve and automatically knowing that Steve was always going to end up right even if he wasn’t, and knowing that in the end, he’ll never be close to the team and doesn’t really care enough to.

“Yeah. I don’t have anything to miss.” He echoes.

And they leave that night, not as natural friends or as acquaintances (they’re too isolated, to careful and cautious and unwilling to unify or open themselves up in any way to even have their emotions hold hands) but as something close yet unnatural. Tony, who’s too fake yet too honest and real cannot simply create something organic with someone equally synthetic.

"You know, just because you think something's not worth missing doesn't mean you don't miss it." She suddenly interjects, and he blinks, surprised once again within the span of these past two minutes. Apparently Natasha isn't completely empty- he forgets that she's constantly full of surprises that just happen to lie in obscurity.

He takes another second, and scrolls through his flashbacks lacklusterly.

"Nah. Don't miss anything either."

And she scrutinizes him with non-judgmental but intense eyes, wide and reflective in the dark kitchen, before ultimately boredly staring back down at her own glass of water: she either found what she was looking for, nothing new, or she gave up.

* * *

Tony wonders if Pepper and Rhodey bleed.

Never mind- Pepper most definitely: why else would she have crumbled underneath the pressure, broken up with him, and understood that he will never open up, that they could never settle on the same wavelength? Hurt that Tony can’t bother to break himself and leave himself in pieces for her to pick them up and rebuild (he can’t trust others to do things for him) and understanding that Tony Stark can’t just live a normal life, she left. At least it proves she bleeds- she just shows to have limits and knows when to stop. Knows how to avoid exsanguination.

Rhodey forces himself to bleed, allows himself to get cut simply because it is Tony.

He’s unlike Pepper, who’s gotten too close and nearly bled to death in the process, but too distant yet too attached through sentimentality to simply let go of Tony.

So Tony gave up on him.

When would people understand- when an organic being with smooth functions come in contact with something as artificial as him, cannot make something natural?

 

It’s best just to get rid of it.

* * *

“Little One. Sometimes I see you, and I think that you are hiding from me. You know, I always have an open ear?”

Tony smirks behind his sunglasses, his features too compromised by unnatural expressions in response to serious moments to properly react to the atmosphere.

“Thanks Thor, but I’m great.” He snorts, patting the man’s melon-sized bicep.

Tony would rather die.

He doesn’t give a shit about how his emotions might burden others- rather he hates how people react to it. He doesn’t like people attempting to mother him or deal with his issues; he’s dealt with them for the past forty years _alone_ and he forced himself through every hardship, smashed his own tin armor and rebuilt it numerous times with steel, and _he_ was the one who waded through his blood of tar and methanol and various other unidentifiable fluids that slipped through his cracks, to simply tear down his figure and watch as the blood level rises past his knees.

 _He_ was the one that quietly welded together a new body for his pitch black emotions to swim in.

How dare others think they can simply attempt to help him now, and take credit for his solutions he made for himself already?

And staring at Thor’s genuine and caring expression, he knows that the man resembles Clint way too much, but doesn’t get hurt in the same, foolish way Clint does to understand the pain that rattles within the marksman. He hates that. He wants to punch him.

“Tony. You are hurting.”

“Thor, the only reason I’m hurting is because you’re trying to find problems that don’t exist. Because I’m perfect,” he lashes out in a wave of passive-aggressiveness, feeling unremorseful even as Thor appears hurt, even as Steve who overheard the conversation glared on with disapproval directed only at Tony.

Tony knots his lips into his a scowl, watching without guilt at the blood that fills the sliver cut shallowly into Thor’s skin.

* * *

“You know, Tony. One day you’re going to break, and you’re not going to be able to fix yourself.” Natasha says coolly.

“Maybe.” He sighs, measuring his voice to equal nonchalance. “But honestly, I’m ready for that day. At least it’ll give me a reason as to why death would be easier than living once that happens.”

“That’s unhealthy.”

“Oh, and what about you Natasha?”

“I see you look at me. And I know you think that if I break, nothing will even come out.”

He takes a second. Did he hear hurt? But then, he sees the slight curiosity glittering within her unwavering gaze. No, not curiosity. Pity.

The magazine between his hands strains. He wonders if Natasha thinks that about herself. Because it’s the truth. Because he can’t be wrong because if he’s wrong about Natasha, that Natasha isn’t past saving, then what about him? What does that say about him, someone who likes to see others fail alongside with him to justify his inability to help himself? He’s scared.

“Tony, I sincerely wish you’d just find happiness.” His breathing stutters, because he doesn’t know where this conversation is going, and trepidation fills his bloodstream faster than alcohol could. “Even though I myself find no appeal in it-” _you mean you can’t understand it. You never experienced it- of course how could you ever comprehend its value?_ “You cannot keep up with your appearances forever, even if you think so. You’re going to die an unhappy man.”

“You think it’s possible for me to find happiness?” He barks a mirthless laugh, as fear rearranges his innards. Because he knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to hear it, especially not from someone like Natasha who’s always right in the sense that she really is, not like Captain America who’s right because everything changes just for him to fit his logic.

Natasha Romanov stares at him, whatever that cared enough to flicker within the depths of black extinguished and dead.

“Goodnight, Tony.”

He chokes.

“Good night.”

And he breaks, allowing charred smithereens of metal to go flying, inky blood that falters between the thickness of tar and thinned metaholine to seep deep into the couch he’s seated in while his respiration goes faint.

 _When will you be something?_ (Well, he’s an entrepreneur, billionaire, engineer, and he’s Iron Man). _When will you be Tony Stark?_ (Tony Stark is only anything when listed by the previous answers).

He waits for himself to die completely before he can start rebuilding his body.

 


End file.
